


Put it in a safe behind a painting, lock it up and leave

by cm (mumblemutter)



Series: Start a War [1]
Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blindfolds, Breathplay, Gunplay, Incest, M/M, Organized Crime, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-14
Updated: 2010-04-14
Packaged: 2017-10-08 22:48:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/80291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mumblemutter/pseuds/cm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nathan and Peter are arms dealers. Cheers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Put it in a safe behind a painting, lock it up and leave

_Monday --_

[The story went: Peter's mother went into early labor during a hunting trip, wherein she'd somehow gotten separated from their father and was left alone with a twelve year old Nathan in the woods, desperate and in pain and lost. What she was doing being eight months pregnant and still hunting deer no-one knew, but Nathan laid her out against a tree and gave her water, and held her hand, until it was clear that something was wrong, that the baby was stuck, and not coming out. The boy kissed his mother on the forehead once, and then dug out the hunting knife, used to slit the throat of dying deer, gut them from sternum to tail.

They had no hot water, no means to sterilize or anesthetize, but his father had made him clean the deer, just the day before. It was, in the end, down to losing both mother and child, and saving his unborn brother. Nathan didn't hesitate, not for a second. They found him huddled, hours later, against the cooling body of his mother, baby boy silent and wrapped in her coat in his arms, the umbilical cord still attached. The boy hadn't known he should cut it, see. But ever since that day, Peter had been Nathan's, and Nathan's alone. But that was for the best, because Nathan Petrelli grew up to be a scary son of a bitch, that much was true. But Peter, Peter was downright insane.

That was just a story, of course. The reality was no-one knew who or where their mother was; she might just have easily have been a retiree in Florida, putting greens on the weekday and going to senior citizen blowouts in the evenings.

Their father something else entirely, a tale that was told with nothing but whispers and conjecture. About his parenting style, and how Nathan's grooming as his rightful heir had taken a distinctly nasty turn, the son growing up even more ruthless than his father, and finally the all out war which had resulted, obviously, in Nathan laying waste to most of the old guard and building his empire upon the bones and ashes of everyone that had dared to cross him. "I'm just a man trying to live up to his father's expectations, you understand," Nathan liked to say, spreading his arms open across the desk. On the couch nearby, Peter snorted. Peter always snorted at Nathan's speeches. Because Nathan always meant: cross me and I will destroy you like I destroyed dear old Dad.]

The accounts manager was talking about revenue streams and books balancing, and Nathan was listening, but mostly he was leaning back in his chair to get a better look at Peter, resplendent in the pale beige suit that Nathan had just had tailored for him. Of course, Peter would pair it with the wrong tie, but it was still an arresting effect. Peter was sitting on the edge of the desk, one leg precariously balanced on the arm of Nathan's chair. A muscle in his thigh flexed, and Nathan said, "You've been working out too much. You're starting to look like a steroid junkie."

"I'm not your call boy, Nathan. You don't get to dictate how my body looks. Besides, I didn't hear you complaining last night."

"And so then uh-" Nathan focused his attention back onto the manager as he cut himself off mid sentence, his eyes wide and the color rising to his cheeks. Caffery, that was his name. Pretty as a picture, this one. Shame about the personality. "Shall I, uh. Perhaps I shall come back and we can complete this some other day?"

He blinked, almost comically, and Noah said, "No, keep going. We're listening."

Peter flicked a paper clip at Nathan, which Nathan batted away in fond irritation. "Yeah, we are. Go on, please."

The guy said something at some point, the meeting was over by then and they were all walking towards the door so Nathan wasn't paying much attention, and he didn't know exactly what it was that set Peter off. Must have been bad though. Nathan accessed the situation, decided the guy was expendable. Not exactly easily replaceable, but he hadn't been here long enough that his loss would be felt too badly. Perhaps Parkman might mind, but he really shouldn't have sent the kid up without warning him first about how to properly behave around Peter. Nathan turned towards Noah and Noah just shrugged.

Peter punched the guy, over and over again. One knee pressed down in the middle of his chest, his other leg bent and booted foot firm near the side of his head; Peter never liked getting his pants dirty. The suit would be ruined anyway - all the blood. Mildly, he said, "Peter, your knuckles," because Peter would hit until he was cracked and raw, and scream at night when Nathan accidentally touched his bandaged hand.

Peter looked up briefly, color high and red splashed over his face like paint. Nathan shrugged, and Peter took out his gun. It was over soon, after that. The wet squelching and the man's harsh breaths stuttering to a stop, until it wasn't fun anymore, not even for Peter.

Nathan said, to Noah this time, "Take care of it," and lit a cigarette to dispel the thin scent of copper in the air. His cheek felt wet, and when he touched it tentatively with his fingers it came away red. Noah handed him a handkerchief. "Thank you."

[Noah Bennet was ex-military, black-ops, and sure, maybe it was the service that disillusioned him, but the truth was there wasn't much of a difference between what he did when he was serving his country and what he was doing now. Except possibly minus the crazy, incestuous brothers, but at least they both kept things interesting, and the pay was far, far better. Noah didn't have much of a conscience anymore, but that had happened years ago, and all he wanted now was job security and to provide for his family.]

"That's my job," Noah said. He knew well enough not to touch Peter, waited until Peter rose smoothly from the floor, came towards Nathan with his eyes as bright as the sun.

"Don't, Peter. You're filthy," Nathan warned, and Peter stopped, about a foot away from him. Everyone else got to work, Noah made phonecalls and one of his men, whose name Nathan couldn't recall from the top of his head, paled and leaned against the wall until Noah snapped his fingers at him to demand he contribute to the cleanup. The body would disappear, the carpet replaced. The man had a wife - a widow, now. Nathan fingered Peter's jacket and mentally made a note to send her the drycleaning bill. If the suit could be salvaged, which he doubted. Peter held the gun out and Nathan took it away from him, stained with blood and broken bits of bone and brain matter. He handed it to Knox, who at least had the foresight to put on gloves before taking it.

"You want this back?"

"I want this back," Peter replied sharply. Nathan nodded his head at Knox's look, and grabbed Peter's hand before he could react.

"Poor baby, look what you did. You should wear gloves, and those knuckle dusters I got you last year," he told Peter sternly, as he had, many times before, but Peter only nodded his head, as usual, and didn't listen. Nathan wrapped the handkerchief around the ruined hand and red starting seeping through almost immediately. Nathan didn't know if it was Peter's or the guy's, but he lifted it to his mouth anyway and kissed the back of it softly.

Peter whispered, "Let's go, let's go," but Nathan ignored him.

"We have work to do, I need to broker the deal with the Colombians this afternoon, remember?"

Peter nodded his head solemnly, and like this he was a child, but only sometimes and only when it didn't matter. "Whatever," he said, and took the cigarette carefully away from Nathan's fingers and inhaled, threw his head back to blow the smoke straight up into the air.

They both watched as the body was finally removed. Nathan went to the desk and got Michelle to come in with some air-freshener, so the room wouldn't stick so much like death. Michelle clucked and glared sternly at Peter, who ducked his head shyly until she sighed in exasperation and said, "Okay. You should change, honey. Your extra suit's where I left it, in the bathroom." She nodded her head in the direction of the bathroom door, made up to look like part of the wood panels of the office. Peter grimaced, but when Michelle asked you to do something, you did it.

"Try not to get blood on the floor, Pete," Nathan said, and Peter shot him a filthy look before he disappeared into the bathroom.

When he was gone Nathan turned to Noah, who was putting his coat back on. "I'll go and talk to Parkman, let him know he needs to hire a new manager. Then I need to have a conversation with Bishop, over what's going on in Panama," Noah said.

"What the fuck is going on in Panama? First this fracas in Miami, now Panama."

"I'm flying down to Miami this afternoon, see if I can't figure out what happened. Panama might have to wait until after I return - my return flight's tomorrow afternoon. Will let you know if I can't make it."

Nathan waved him off. "No, I'll handle Panama. Don't worry about it." Peter came out of the bathroom just as Noah closed the door behind him. "Noah gone," he said.

"Yeah. Miami."

"Right." He was wiping his hands on a towel that was rapidly turning red with blood.

Nathan frowned. "Your knuckles are still bleeding."

"Yeah. I'll be okay though." He tossed the towel behind him, onto the sink, ignored Nathan's scowl and shut the door. Michelle walked up to him and fussed over the new suit, patted his shoulders down as he smiled indulgently at her.

"Always so handsome," she said fondly, and Nathan scowled even deeper as Peter's smile widened. "Listen, maybe the two of you should go to lunch while I clean up what's left of this mess we've got here. I made reservations."

"French?" Peter asked hopefully.

"Japanese, sorry, honey. Blame your brother."

"Of course."

Michelle shooed the both of them out, until Nathan said, as they made their way to the elevator, "It's as if she's in charge."

"Isn't she," Peter muttered distractedly, and pulled at his tie. Nathan waited until the elevator arrived and they were in it, on the way down, before he slapped lightly at Peter's hands and adjusted the tie back up until it was laid properly.

"It's too tight," Peter growled.

"It's perfect," Nathan said. "Don't mess with it anymore." Peter shifted his shoulders in agitation, but stopped fidgeting with it, and Nathan ran his palms down his arms until he reached Peter's hands. He turned the wrecked one and lifted it, pleased to note that it seemed to have stopped bleeding.

"Told you it'd be fine."

"Just checking."

"I hate Japanese food. Can't we go to that new French place downtown?"

"No."

Peter only tugged on Nathan's collar with slim fingers and said, "There's a drop of blood on your collar. It's fine though. Barely even noticeable." The color on his cheeks was still high, and his eyes shone. He was happy, here and now.

"I want my gun back," he said.

"You'll get it back, don't worry."

In the limo, Nathan waited until they'd pulled out of the parking lot before pressing the button to slide the divider between them and the driver up. Peter was slumped on the seat of the limo, and Nathan got on his knees between his open thighs. He wrapped one hand around Peter's tie and the other one on his belt, roughly tugging it open. "Nathan, don't," Peter said fitfully.

But Nathan said, "Shut up," and Peter did, his mouth drawing into a thin line. Nathan finally got the belt loose and then he worked on the button and zipper until he could yank Peter's pants, together with his briefs, down to shoes. Peter didn't bother helping much, just shifted uncomfortably, his arms loose and uninterested by his sides. He was hard though, leaking. Nathan pulled out his own dick and rose slightly, aligned them both together, his hand sliding on and around, until even Peter gasped. "You like that, huh," Nathan said.

"Fuck you," Peter snapped, but then he sighed, and when Nathan held out his palm and said, "Spit," he spit. Nathan used it to slick himself down even more, already shiny with pre-come. He could barely think beyond Peter, from the way he looked to the way he smelled, like oil and gunpowder. Like death. Like sex. "Breathe, okay," he ended up saying, as if soothing a small animal, and Peter laughed until Nathan spread his thighs apart even further and shoved, then the sound cut off abruptly like a radio switched off. He didn't clench though, just breathed through it until Nathan was full in, feet scuffling on the carpeted floor.

This was a game they played.

Someone broke, eventually.

Usually it was Peter.

This time around Nathan angled his hips just so and Peter turned his head to the side, exposing the pale, thin line of his throat. Nathan leaned forward and licked down, bit when he got to the base where Peter's pulse was beating. He moved incrementally, and Peter said, "Shit, oh god, Nathan. Fuck me."

Sometimes Nathan would reply, "Beg," because he liked Peter's mouth sounding out the words "Please" and "I'm begging you" so sweetly, but that usually took a while, and today he was too hard, too mired in need and heat like a wave though his body, and so he just got into it, gripped the back of the seat with both his hands and thrust until it subsided, until he was slumped across Peter's chest, heaving with release and borderline exhaustion.

Peter said, "Get the fuck off me, Nathan," but Nathan ignored him, just petted his chest softly and nuzzled his cheek. Peter tried shifting away, but gave up soon enough. "What are we going to do about lunch? We're a mess."

Nathan lifted himself up slightly and grimaced. "I'll just call and order ahead, ask Jones to pick it up for us."

"Maybe he can pick me up some fucking decent food instead," Peter said grouchily.

Nathan ignored him to reach to the side and press the intercom, get Jones to place the order. "Just drive us home after," he said. "I need to shower and change before the meeting this afternoon. Christ, I hate the fucking Colombians." Peter raised his hand and tugged on Nathan's hair lazily. Nathan raised a questioning brow at him, but he just shrugged in response.

_Tuesday --_

[The first man that Peter ever killed - he was seventeen and Pa had sent Nathan to handle a jittery transport guy who'd suddenly decided no, he really couldn't ship those M16s into Burma, thanks. Read: he wanted to squeeze them for more money. Peter insisted on tagging along even though Nathan initially told him he couldn't go. He was more or less living with Nathan by then though, had been almost since Nathan first got his own place, and when Nathan was getting ready to leave he'd blocked Nathan's way and said, "Take me with you." Pa had no interest in Peter being involved in the business, but he hadn't explicitly forbidden it either, but Nathan wasn't sure he wanted to bring him; Peter was volatile and unpredictable on the best of days, and managed to get into trouble simply by breathing.

"It's just a conversation, I'll be gone and back before you know it."

"Come on, Nathan." He slid his arm around Nathan's waist to rest on the small of his back.

"Fine. But you're not getting out of the car."

"Sure, whatever."

It was raining that afternoon, flat droplets that wet Nathan's feet as he walked into the warehouse, even shielded by Sam holding the umbrella over him. Peter in the back of the limo, looking like a kid playing dress-up in an ill-fitting suit that Nathan hadn't even known he'd owned - Nathan would burn the suit later, make sure that Peter was introduced to his tailor; kid had to grow up sometime. Things went bad, extremely fast, inside. The man, Taylor, snapped at him, "Where's your father. I want to see Arthur."

Nathan thinned his lips. "Arthur's a busy man. He sent me instead."

"Well I don't want _you._" He looked Nathan up and down derisively. "Tell Arthur not to send his children to do his dirty work. Tell him everything shuts down until he decides I'm worth showing his face for."

In retrospect, Nathan should have known that it was a set-up, but he was too busy being furious at being disrespected to notice that things had gone bad in about a heartbeat, until the bullets started flying and a hole appeared in the middle of Sam's forehead as he toppled, slowly, to the ground. Nathan reached for his weapon, but before he could draw it out something hit him hard in the shoulder, then the face, and he fell to his knees.

Two seconds later it was over, and there was a steady arm around him, Peter going, "Nathan holy shit you're bleeding oh god-"

"Taylor," Nathan ground out, trying to blink though the pain and the blood.

Peter said, "He's dead," and he sounded odd, but he managed to get Nathan to his feet and drag him over to the car. He put Nathan out in the back seat and shut the door without getting in, and Nathan wondered briefly where he'd gone until the car started and then Nathan realized Sam was dead, Peter needed to drive. The car lurched; Peter had only gotten his license last month, and not because he particularly deserved it - he was a horrible driver. They'd probably be dead before they managed to get themselves to safety. The divider rolled down and Peter called out, "Are you okay, Nathan?"

"I'm fine, I'll be fine. Pay attention to the road, Peter. For the love of-" But then everything started spinning, and the world turned black. When he woke up he was in his bed, Peter sitting on a chair next to him. From the corner of his eye he could see an IV stand, and a heart monitor beeped steadily behind him. "What happened?" Nathan said, or tried to, he could barely move his jaw.

"I called Pa," Peter said. "He got someone to come over and patch you up."

"Isn't the room set up at his house? How'd you manage to get them to bring all of it here."

Peter didn't answer, instead he fussed with some syringes, filling them up with liquid from an array of bottles laid out on the side table in a neat little row. He injected them into Nathan's IV with surprising professionalism. "I'm supposed to do this three times a day, but there's a nurse right out side though, in case anything goes wrong. She's annoyingly perky. It's just a precaution, apparently you'll live, but Pa's disappointed I wasn't more useful." His face was cold and detached, the way it always got whenever he had to deal with Pa.

Nathan tried moving his shoulder and his entire arm screamed; Peter immediately came forward and put his hands carefully on his body. "Don't move, just try and rest, okay." He smoothed Nathan's brow away from his forehead and planted a soft kiss on it, before helping him sit up enough so that he could take the pills that were handed to him together with a glass of water. Nathan swallowed them down and grimaced, but more from discomfort rather than pain this time.

"Shouldn't she be doing this," he said. "That nurse I mean, that's supposed to be outside."

"Yeah, but she's Pa's woman, so I told her I'll handle it," Peter said dangerously. "I take care of you."

"You killed Taylor."

"Yeah," Peter replied. His entire body stilled, tensed up. "I heard the gunshots and I started running, and when I got there he was standing over you, and there was so much blood, and I thought. I don't really remember much after that." Nathan tilted his head slightly back so he could get a better look at Peter. His eyes were wide and serious, searching. "I've never-"

"I know, Pete. You saved my life."

Peter's lips twisted into a wry smile. "Does that make us even now?"

"It gets better, Pete," Nathan said. Peter said nothing, he just crawled into bed next to Nathan and slid an arm around his waist, careful to avoid any place that might hurt. "It's just - you don't have to do any of this if you don't want to."

"But you need me." He traced his fingers over Nathan's lips softly, then cradled his face with his hands and kissed him softly. "No one needs me like you do, Nathan. You don't know what that feels like."

Nathan's heart constricted, but all he said was, "Okay."

Peter asked him, days afterwards, when Nathan was certain he was going to live. "Who's the first person you ever killed."

Nathan replied shortly, "Mom," and Peter flinched. What happened was, Nathan was twenty and Pa had put a gun in his hand and told him to kill a man who'd committed a minor infraction against him, a man that Nathan had grown up around, a man who'd beg and plead for his life even as Nathan stood before him, after Pa said, "I trust you to do what's necessary." Not doing it wasn't an option that had even crossed his mind, but it surprised him that he was so reluctant, and how he felt afterwards. Like he'd changed somehow, an alien being taken root in the base of his spine, spreading dark tendrils everywhere, like a character in those stupid comic books Peter liked to read, and sometimes made him flip through as well. After the second or third time, he barely noticed it was there, and after that, nothing much mattered anymore. Certainly it was nothing worth telling Peter about.]

Noah returned early morning, a half hour after Nathan entered the office. Nathan didn't ask if the situation in Miami had been handled; that was what Bennet did, he handled situations. He came bearing even worse news though.

"Those dirty fucking spics-" Nathan swore, but Peter interrupted him.

"Dirty fucking Dominicans, Nathan," he said. "Spics is a derogatory term."

Nathan frowned. "I thought they were Mexican."

"No, not the twins. Everyone else, possibly. Not the twins. Please don't launch into another spiel about the illegal immigration problem in this country."

Noah cleared his throat. "I asked Sylar to come by. We'll find them, get the money back."

"Sylar, really?" Peter said.

"Yes, Sylar."

"Didn't he try to kill you the last time we hired him? Something about how us hiring back-up meant that we were disrespecting him."

"Yes well, I guess we just won't hire back-up now, will we?" Nathan snapped. "We need to send a message that you don't steal from us. Sylar's the most effective weapon we have."

The twins, Alejandro and Maya Herrera, lucky survivors of a shootout of an arms deal gone bad - which wasn't the problem, weapons deals went bad all the time, and they handled it accordingly. Usually by refusing to do business with the offending parties anymore. Except that the twins had lived through the shootout and walked away with three million dollars of money that rightfully belonged to them. One couldn't abide by theft, not ever.

"I could get them, though," Peter said. "If you'd let me-"

"For the last time, Peter, no. Go torture some small animals or something if you're hankering for blood."

"I could kill that blonde slut you're banging, how about that?" Peter said, narrowing his eyes spitefully at Nathan.

"Woman," Nathan said. "Slut is a derogatory term."

Noah said, "Sylar will be here in five minutes."

[When Sylar received the call, on the one hand, it was the brothers, and they paid well and on time, never questioned his methods, and most importantly, they never minded the body count. Sylar liked cutting through the skull with a bone-saw, peeling it off to see the secrets hidden inside. He told everyone he was searching for God. When he didn't have time he just used his hands, or sometimes the gun. A fair bit of that was recreational though; they didn't pay the bills. Sylar didn't have many needs, but he had to eat and pay the rent. Plus, he enjoyed having a purpose. It made him useful.

On the other hand though, it was The Brothers.]

Sylar entered the room silently and stood next to Noah, hands tucked neatly into his coat pockets. Peter crossed his leg and smiled at him, and Sylar didn't smile back. Nathan said, "We still have the transmitter, and they're not smart. You can find them, I'm certain."

"I can find them," Sylar said. "I can already taste their souls. Do you know what souls taste like, Peter."

Peter said, "Like you're fucking crazy?" Sylar blinked impassively at him. Sylar never looked as if he could hurt a fly. Pale face framed by nerdy glasses, close cropped hair and eyebrows that were just about the only distinctive feature on his face. His appearance wasn't intended to deceive, it was just how he was. Peter grinned. Sometimes, Sylar amused. "I could come with you, if you'd like."

"I work alone, but thank you for the offer, Peter." He rubbed the back of his neck with his hand and said, almost dreamily, "The last time I tried a partner that didn't work out very well. I feel one can only truly trust family, and as I have none I-"

Nathan slammed a notebook down onto the table. "Okay, so if you have all the information that you need." Sylar ignored him, and so did Peter.

Noah said, "Sylar, do you need your parking validated?"

"Yes please, thank you very much, Bennet." He nodded his head sharply at Nathan's direction. "Nathan."

"Sylar," Nathan said, and deliberately flipped the notebook open after grabbing a pen, made a show of not looking up. Noah stood and accompanied Sylar to the door, walked him out.

Peter told him, when they were alone, "You're an asshole."

"So you keep telling me. Stop flirting with the crazy guns for hire."

"How was that even remotely close to flirting? Besides, it's not as if I plan on fucking him," Peter said pointedly. Nathan didn't bother to respond. Instead he opened the top drawer of the desk and drew out Peter's gun, now clean and sterilized. He checked the chamber, slotted it back in, loaded the slide then handed it back to Peter, who'd already stood up to reach for it.

"Tell Knox thanks," Peter said, tucking the gun back into his holster.

Nathan templed his fingers and said, "Knox told me you're a pain in the ass, that it's probably cheaper to get rid of it and buy a new one."

"Knox did, did he?"

"No, that was me," Nathan admitted. "But I'm extrapolating from his demeanor."

Peter smiled, before coming around to Nathan's side and using one knee to kick Nathan's chair slightly away so he could rest his butt against the edge of the desk. Nathan slid his hands up Peter's thighs, but he stilled when Peter said, "What can I say, Nathan. I like keeping things around that hold sentimental value to me." He traced the bridge of Nathan's nose with the back of his index finger. "It's getting late. Let's go home."

"Let's not," Nathan said. Peter watched him warily as he worked Peter's belt out of its loop and pulled it free, wrapped the buckled end around his fist twice, until Nathan stood up and spun him around violently enough that he almost lost his balance, had to put his palms onto the desk to steady himself. Nathan weighed the belt, but decided it might do for later. For now, he pulled at his own tie until he could slip it out over his head.

Peter turned to look and Nathan pushed his head back, then slid the tie around Peter's head, let it drop until it reached his eyes. Peter said, "No, I don't-"

Nathan said, "Shut," and Peter inhaled, sharp, and shut, as Nathan tightened the soft silk around the back of his head. "Can you see?"

"No." He sounded unsure. Nathan slipped two fingers into Peter's mouth and Peter sucked on them automatically, his teeth biting down, as usual, just a little too hard. Nathan pulled his fingers away and spun him back around, pushed him down onto the desk. Peter raised himself up onto his elbows, chin jutting out defiantly, but Nathan just slowed his breathing down and stepped back, watched silently until Peter said shakily, "Nathan?"

"Shh," Nathan said.

"But I can't-" Nathan let his fingers trail down the side of Peter's long neck, and Peter shivered, his head automatically turning into Nathan's palm. Nathan slid his hand down, all the way to Peter's pants, worked the belt and the zipper so he could pull Peter's cock out. Peter shimmied, but Nathan grabbed him by the base of his throat and squeezed until he gasped and his fingers twisted fruitlessly at Nathan's wrist, but Nathan removed the gun from inside of Peter's jacket and jammed it up against the line between Peter's jaw and his throat, hard enough to leave a bruise. Peter swallowed hard, the dark oily gleam of the gun a sweet contrast with the paleness of his skin, and he said, "Stop."

Nathan replied, "Don't move. You know how sensitive that trigger of yours is," and only when Peter finally got the message and stilled entirely, did Nathan start stroking him. Gently at first, and when Peter moved he stopped, removed his hand. He kept the other one pressed against Peter's throat though, all his fingers save for the thumb wrapped around the gun. The thumb he slid along Peter's skin, small movements against his collarbone. Distantly he could feel his own cock, hard and straining against the material of his pants, but he pushed that away, concentrated on the slide of his fingers on Peter, on watching Peter's face as he helplessly grabbed for any kind of purchase on the slick surface of the desk, as Peter's mouth fell open, soft and red and desperate. Peter didn't last long in any case, one last stroke and he came, hot and hard into Nathan's hand, gasping Nathan's name. Nathan raised his palm to Peter's mouth, close enough that his nose wrinkled slightly at the faint smell. "Lick it clean."

Peter's tongue was tentative at first, but eventually he managed to get most of it, even without being able to see. Nathan murmured in approval, and finally he allowed Peter to pull the blindfold off his face. He blinked rapidly at Nathan, looking vaguely stunned, and Nathan grinned, handed him back his gun. Peter slowly re-holstered it before he dragged Nathan in for a wet, sloppy kiss. Nathan laughed and framed Peter's face with his hands, slowed the kiss down until Peter exhaled and his muscles unclenched, all the tension bleeding out of him as he fell into Nathan. "You want me to," he said, almost indistinctly, against Nathan's throat, his fingers finding their way to Nathan's crotch, stroking him through his pants.

Nathan shook his head and said, "Later. Let's go home."

_Wednesday --_

[Once, Nathan woke up and Peter was straddling his chest, the hunting knife in his hands. Peter liked to keep it strapped to his ankle, Nathan was never sure whether it was the original one or not, it looked identical but it had to be a copy, the one he'd used he'd left on the wet ground of the forest after the helicopters found them. "I'm trying to sleep, Pete," Nathan said, when Peter pressed the point to Nathan's sternum, dragged it down with enough force to sting but not to cut the skin.

"I was just wondering, was it difficult? How did you know where to cut? What if you'd cut me as well, accidentally stabbed the soft flesh under my throat, like this. The knife could have slipped." Nathan swallowed, and the slight movement caused the edge of the knife to dip, and Nathan winced, felt warm wetness bubble against his skin.

"Sorry," Peter said, and released the pressure. "Sorry." He licked carefully at the small wound, and Nathan wrapped his arms around him.

"You never answered me," he said, against Nathan's throat.

"I don't really remember, Pete. It was mostly just instinct." Peter didn't reply, and after a while he slid off of Nathan's chest, pressed up to his side and wrapped an arm around his chest. Nathan gently pried the knife from his fingers and blindly dropped it on the bedside table, ignoring Peter's muffled protest. Nathan never had any illusions about what kind of man he was, what kind of family he'd belonged to, but sometimes he thought that Peter had come to him already broken, and all Nathan ever did, all the care he put in, only made it worse.]

Peter was flipping aimlessly through the newspaper. They were on the way to the office, back from visiting a warehouse near the docks. One of their more recent, legal enterprises. Nathan's plan, eventually, was legitimacy. All you really needed was capital, and of that they certainly had enough. Arthur never quite got that, and that's why he was dead and Nathan was in charge. There were other reasons, but Nathan chose not to dwell on those. Peter said, at one point, "Oh look, prostate cancer is the number one cause of cancer in men over fifty."

"That's unfortunate," Nathan replied, smiling at the new girl, the new logistics assistant. Bob Bishop's daughter. "What's your name, sweetheart? Elle, right? That's a pretty name."

"Not that you'd miss it if it were gone," Peter replied.

"This again?"

"You get upset over more than one finger, Nathan. I think it's somewhat pathological at this point." Elle smiled nervously, and Nathan patted her on the knee. She was too young for him, though. Plus she seemed to be more interested in Peter, from the way she kept shooting glances his way. Maybe this one Peter wouldn't kill, out of respect for Bob. "I bet you'd let me fuck you up the ass, wouldn't you, Elle," Peter said.

"Pete, language. I'm sorry about my brother. He was raised by wolves, it would seem."

"No, Nathan." Peter snapped the newspaper shut and folded it into half, tossed it onto the seat next to him. "I was raised by you." He turned to Elle abruptly, said, "You didn't answer my question."

[Bob Bishop said, "My daughter's very talented, but a little idiosyncratic. Just a little." By that he meant she once poured gasoline inside their house and stood watching it burn. It and all her other fourth grade classmates, come over for a birthday party. She told Bob, "They were laughing at me and plus the clown was scary, Daddy." Fifteen years and two hospitals plus some electroshock therapy later, and here she was. Nathan wasn't afraid of her, it wasn't his responsibility to keep her stable, but Peter, at some point, started eying her with as much interest as she did him. "Elle is very good with numbers," Bob said. "She will help our organization, I have no doubt."]

Noah smiled. "He's just kidding, Elle." But Elle had her head tilted, and she was staring at Peter with a strange glint in her eye. "Your father, by the way," Noah continued calmly, "Told me you graduated top of your class at Yale. You must be so proud. Nathan was a Stanford man himself."

"And what college did you go to," Elle asked Peter.

"Same as Nathan," Peter replied, the smile on his face nasty. "I wasn't left with any other options. The Petrellis aren't privy to those. Be grateful you're not one."

"Ah," Elle said, and awkwardly tugged on her skirt, her gaze lowering. "Kinda tough being a Bishop too. I heard you have a daughter, Mr. Bennet."

She smiled at Noah, but Noah didn't talk about Claire, ever, so he only said shortly. "Yes," in a tone of voice designed to shut down conversation. Elle exhaled quietly, and went back to looking out the window.

_Thursday --_

[Most of his childhood could be clearly split into two: before Peter and after Peter. It was years before he realized Pa blamed both of them for Ma's death - Nathan for killing her, but mostly Peter for daring to be a breach baby in the first place. For daring to be. Mostly, he remembered life in the Petrelli household after the death of their mother as being one continuous trial after another, after he abruptly pulled Nathan out of military school for seemingly no reason other than, when Nathan asked him why, to say, "You need more discipline." Nathan wanted to point out that it was military school, you didn't really get much more discipline than that, but it was always wiser not to talk back to Pa, not when he'd already made up his mind.

At least it meant he got to spend a little more time with Peter, for all that he was just a baby still and did nothing but cry and poop his diapers all day. Except that Peter didn't remain that way, and soon enough was an actual person, one with an overly-curious nature, a tendency to fall down a lot and an infectious laugh that was just about the only thing that ever gave Nathan reason to smile. He was also, for some reason, unequivocally devoted to Nathan.

"You're too close to him," Pa said once, when Peter was six and had already taken to following Nathan around like a tiny, every-present shadow. "Go to your room, Peter. Your brother and I need to have a chat."

Peter looked up, wide-eyed, at Nathan, and Nathan nodded his head. "Go on, champ." Peter scrambled away, and Nathan waited until he disappeared around the corner before saying, "He's my brother. Besides, a child shouldn't be raised by nannies and the kitchen help."

"And what will happen when you go away to college?" Pa asked. He led them both into his study and slid behind his desk, leaving Nathan to close the door and sit across from him. He always felt like a child here, ready to be schooled for whatever infraction, real or imagined, was going to be leveled against him. Before Ma died Nathan was always reassured by her presence, the knowledge that she would always instinctively know when to interrupt, pull Nathan out with some excuse that always seemed entirely plausible and necessary. Six years on, and on occasion Nathan still expected her quiet knock on the door before she opened it and peeked in, eyes warm on Nathan's.

"Well, he does have a father," Nathan said, and tried to keep the bitterness from his voice.

Pa steepled his fingers. "True," he said, calm as anything, "But I never wanted him in the first place. It was an accident, and your mother refused to get rid of him. Look how he paid her back."

"He was just a baby, Pa. It wasn't his fault." Nathan said.

"I'm sorry, Nathan," Pa told him. "Don't ask me for what I can't give. I tried. When I first brought him home, I tried. But I just can't." He looked inexplicably sad suddenly, and old. "I loved your mother, and I'm sorry."

In the end, Nathan understood in a way. There was so much about Peter that reminded him of their mother, the way Nathan was most certainly an almost carbon copy of Pa. But Peter had a softness about him that even Ma never showed, a vulnerability and sweetness that Nathan never quite understood, even as it drove him to want to protect him from the world. Pa always saw that as a weakness for some reason, on both his and Peter's parts.]

Peter had his hands gripped against the sides of the tub, precariously using his upper body to keep himself balanced instead of putting pressure on his knees. His muscles flexed and strained and his face was close enough to the water that the steam rising turned it a delicate shade of red, strands of his dark hair sticking wetly to his cheek. "Do it," he said.

Nathan dipped his hand experimentally into the water and replied, "No, the water's too hot."

"Do it," Peter said again, his voice clipped.

Nathan sighed through his teeth. "Pete, come on." Peter ignored him, but his fingers slipped on the porcelain so Nathan swung one leg over his back and knelt, straddling Peter's back loosely. He gripped the back of Peter's head and leaned close, kissed the shell of his throat, then shoved down, hard.

Peter thrashed as his head went under the water, and Nathan held him steady, said, "There, it's okay," even though Peter couldn't hear him. He used to time this, but now he knew exactly how long to let him drown, could feel his struggles stutter, his oxygen deprived muscles starting to give. Enough. He let go abruptly and Peter rose, chest heaving as he gasped for breath, blinking warm water out of his eyes.

"Nathan," Peter said softly, and this was different, Peter rarely spoke here, except to give commands. He never opened his mouth so invitingly either, red and almost bruised. Nathan couldn't help it, he kissed him, slid his tongue under Peter's mouth like a thief, until Peter moaned, shivered.

Nathan's dick was hard against the small of Peter's back, and it seemed easy then, to just slide down, and Peter didn't resist, not even when Nathan shoved two rough, wet fingers inside. He only started struggling when Nathan removed his fingers, but Nathan bit down on the back of his throat hard, and Peter stilled. His breath was hard and harsh, teetering on the verge of hyperventilation. "Exhale, Pete," Nathan said, ordered. "Relax." He was slick enough that it worked, barely - Peter pushed back against him and relaxed, pressed his forehead against the edge of the tub as Nathan pushed into him, uttering nonsense words as the room started to spin.

It was bright in here but it somehow felt dark, spots behind his eyes as Peter groaned helplessly. Nathan reached around and found Peter's cock, hard and leaking - he jerked his fingers around it, hard, until Peter gasped again, and swore under his breath. Nathan draped himself over Peter's back, bit down on the lobe of Peter's ear lightly, then whispered, "Whore." Peter came, hard and pulsing in Nathan's hand; then Nathan came, finally, and he collapsed, dragged Peter down to the tile with him.

Peter scrambled up before Nathan could even catch his breath, and Nathan smiled up lazily at him in post-orgasm bliss, even though Peter's face was hard and closed. He let Peter grab him by the upper arm and drag him up, said, almost delirious, "Pete, I-" but he didn't get to finish before he was on his knees again. "Ow," he said, and clutched at his cheek. "That hurt." Peter took hold of his hair and yanked once more, until their faces were about an inch apart. "Are you going to hit me again? Because that wasn't much of a-" This one slammed him back into the tile, and now he was pissed, and his eye was already starting to swell and close. "What the hell, Pete. What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"First of all, I think it's a little hypocritical for you to call me a whore, don't you?"

"Well."

"Shut the fuck up, Nathan. There are _rules._" Nathan slid slowly down the wall until his ass hit the floor, rested his hands loosely on his knees. Peter's fists were still clenched, his body a hard, tense line. He didn't say anything else though, he just stared at Nathan blankly for a while, then he left, slamming the door behind him.

"Fuck," Nathan said. "Fuck."

Afterwards, Nathan came out into the bedroom and found Peter on the bed, wrapped up in a bathrobe and curled up, fetus-like. He dragged a chair over and sat down next to him, ran a hand through Peter's still damp hair. Peter said, "How's your face."

"Do you care?"

"Not particularly, no."

Peter's eyes were closed, his lashes dark against the paleness of his cheek. Nathan wanted him to open them; he always understood Peter better that way. He just said though, "Then why ask?"

"Just being polite."

Nathan smiled thinly. "I remember when you were small-"

"Do you?"

"What?"

"I don't remember when I was small," Peter said. "I remember your face, that's the first thing I remember. Then and now. Nothing much more. Do you think that's strange?"

Nathan hrmed, and said nothing. Instead he got off the chair and into the bed, slid in behind Peter, wrapping an arm around his waist and pulling him close. Peter always smelt clean, soap-scrubbed, even when covered in blood. Nathan put his hand under Peter's bathrobe, right over his heart, and felt its steady beat. He fell asleep like that.

_Friday --_

[Peter was a quick study, even though Pa insisted that he go away to college, and Nathan had to agree that giving his thick-headed brother some kind of education might actually help; Peter still persisted on living with him though, moved back in right after the divorce when through, during his senior year, and when Nathan pointed out that it might be just a little strange that he was living with his far older brother instead of a dorm room Peter blinked at him and said, "Nathan, we're Petrellis. Trust me, what they say about us has nothing to do with where I'm staying. Besides, I need to keep an eye on you." His expression darkened. "You have a short attention span. I went away for three years and you decided to get married. That just won't do."

Pa still didn't trust Peter at all, tried his level best to keep Nathan from involving him. "I don't care if you insist on fucking him, Nathan. But I only have one heir, and that's you." It took Nathan a while to figure out that it wasn't disdain or his lack of faith in Peter's competence that made Arthur so reluctant to get Peter into the business, but fear. He wasn't wrong: Peter was always a weapon, but it was Nathan that carefully slot in the bullets and released the safety, set him loose.

"You know what your biggest mistake was, Pa?" Nathan said, the night he destroyed all of Arthur's dreams, and some part of him still ached, but Arthur had thrown the first salvo. Had tried to kill his firstborn, and almost succeeded. Almost, but not quite. Linderman was already dead, shot twice: once through the head and once through the heart. It was the last time Nathan would ever personally kill someone; it seemed fitting that it would be Arthur's right hand man. His carefully executed coup, and it all ended here. Arthur had raised him right, Nathan was as ruthless as he'd been trained to be.

They were in Pa's study and Nathan was sitting across from him, idly wondering if he should keep the desk or get a new one once the house became his. He continued, "Besides trying to have me killed, that is."

Pa didn't respond, busy as he was trying not to move, what with Peter leaning over him, his bent knee jammed into the middle of Pa's chest and the hunting knife pressed against his throat. Peter was furious, his entire body radiating a strange, terrifying rage, and if Nathan had any reservations about what Peter was capable of, what he'd become, it all flew away when he said flatly, "I'll let you finish your speech, Nathan, because I know how you enjoy speechifying, but would you speed it up please I want him dead already." He grinned suddenly. "Then we're going to fuck, over your cooling body, on your beautiful desk. What do you think about that, Pa?"

Arthur glared, and said, "I think you're a fucking-" And Nathan was expecting it, but he still flinched when the blood splattered, warm and wet, onto his face. Peter backed away from the chair then, the knife dropping from lax fingers onto the carpet. He looked dazed as Arthur choked on his own blood for a while before he stilled.

"How did I do," he asked finally.

"You didn't let me finish my speech," Nathan said. "But otherwise. Yeah, you did good, Pete. You did fine."]

He awoke at dawn and the phone was ringing in his ears. He reached out and grabbed it and snarled, "What?"

Noah said, calm as a bright summer's day, "Sylar called. Said he found the twins. Also said they don't have the money, that it's with someone else. Take him maybe another week to get it. Maybe."

"Why a fucking week? Can't he do it sooner?"

"No. I don't ask - it's Sylar."

"Yeah, yeah," Nathan said.

"We need to deal with the Mexicans - they seem to think that because the money's gone missing and our guys are looking we owe them the shipment. Tell them that it's their own fucking people that took the money, we're doing them a favor by hiring to get it back."

"They're Dominicans."

"What?"

"The twins are Dominicans. They aren't Mexicans. The Mexicans didn't take the money."

Nathan chuckled. "You sound like Peter. Look, I don't care. Fix it. Tell Sylar to get the money back soon or we'll find someone who can. He has two days."

"He's not going to be happy to hear that."

"Tell him he's welcome to try and kill me again, but that he'd better kill Peter first, or they'll be trying to put pieces of him back together again for months," Nathan said, and hung up the phone. He got off the bed and went to the closet to grab a pair of loose pants, then went downstairs to look for Peter. There was the scent of coffee in the air, and he followed it until he reached the kitchen. Peter was sitting there, eating toast and drinking orange juice. Nathan grabbed a cup from the rack and poured himself a cup of coffee before sliding into the chair next to Peter's.

"You look like shit," Peter said, without glancing at him. Nathan winced, and probed at his eye, swollen shut and crusted with dry pus. At least it didn't hurt too badly. His cheekbone did though. It might be cracked, but he hoped not. There was so much work to do, always. He didn't have the time for any of this. "Elle," Peter said. "That little girl of Bob Bishop's. She's coming over - apparently there's someone new that can handle our little shipping problem, now that Panama's out of the question. I'll be gone for the day, Chekov is in town, wants to do brunch - I gotta pick him up at the hotel in about an hour. Try not to fuck her."

"Elle? Don't be ridiculous. She's twelve."

"Twenty-four, actually," Peter said, and slammed his orange juice down onto the table. "Besides, if I recall correctly, twelve never stopped you." He dropped a kiss on Nathan's mouth, a surprise that Nathan automatically leaned into, hand coming up to cup the side of his face. Peter's skin felt slightly rubbery, and it was a little too pink, as if the water had taken the barest of layers off. Too hot, he'd known it. He let Peter kiss him until he was satisfied, his tongue slicking across and under Nathan's teeth, tasting of orange juice and marmalade, but when Peter tried to pull back Nathan grabbed his wrist, dragged it down to his crotch.

"Give me a reason not to fuck her, Pete."

"Give me a reason not to fuck Chekov."

Nathan laughed. "That Commie bastard? You're not his type, unless you have tits and a cunt tucked away that I wasn't aware of."

Peter squeezed Nathan's cock through his pants with strong fingers, said, "I'm everybody's type, Nathan. Your xenophobia continues to charm, by the way." Nathan jerked his hips in response, and Peter obligingly slipped his hand inside of Nathan's pants. He brought his face close and Nathan didn't flinch away in time, but his teeth over Nathan's bruised cheek were just a light denting of flesh, marks that would fade away before the morning was through.

Nathan teetered between pleasure and pain as Peter ran his hand down his shaft aimlessly, not bothering to look for a rhythm until Nathan said, "Pete-" and then he laughed, but sped up until Nathan shook and came, right into Peter's palm.

Peter removed his hand and studiously licked the come off until it was all gone, his face fixed and focused. "Get on your knees," he said, after he showed Nathan his spit-shiny palm. "I want to fuck your mouth."

"My cheek hurts," Nathan complained, but Peter grabbed his hair with that same hand and pulled him roughly off the chair. Nathan winced as his knees hit the floor, too hard, but Peter already had his robe pushed aside and his hard cock in his hand, so Nathan licked his lips to wet them and opened his mouth.

When Peter was done he went upstairs to take a shower. Nathan's mouth felt gummy, and the pain was increasing, so he forgot breakfast and followed him up. In the bathroom, he stared at his face in the mirror with his one good eye, probed again tentatively at his cheek. The skin felt hot and loose, as if there were liquid underneath it, above the bone. He turned on the sink and filled up a glass of water, washed his swollen eye out as best he could, but he still couldn't open it. Eventually he just gave up and brushed his teeth instead, and by the time he was done Peter had finished showering and had stepped out, grinning at him.

"What are you smiling about," Nathan muttered. "Look at my fucking face."

Peter trailed delicate fingers across his eye and cheek, followed them with his lips, soft as a baby's breath. "There," he said, when he'd kissed every place that hurt. "All better now."

Nathan somehow managed to find it in him to smile. "Go get ready," he said. "Wear the gray wool with the black accents I just made for you." Peter nodded his head, and Nathan went into the shower stall. He bathed and washed his hair, grit his teeth as shampoo got into his eye. He took too long, but Peter was waiting for him as he stepped out, toweling his hair try.

"Do I pass inspection," Peter said, and tilted his hat in Nathan's direction.

Nathan made sure his hands weren't wet before he stepped forward to smooth down the lapels of the jacket, adjust the tie until everything suited him. "At least one of us doesn't look like he was in a car accident," he said, and Peter smirked.

Elle showed up at eleven, after Nathan had finished most of the work he'd set out to do. Perky and blonde and looking for Peter, her face falling slightly in disappointment when Nathan said, "Peter's gone. Chekov. You'll just have to settle for me, unfortunately," he continued, turning on the charm and the megawatt smile.

"It's not settling, Mr. Petrelli, don't be silly," Elle replied, and Nathan smiled even wider. "What happened to your face," she said, concern crossing her face.

"My brother happened to my face, Ms. Bishop," Nathan said, and didn't elaborate, choosing instead to reach out to pluck imaginary lint off her cashmere sweater. He had her face-down on his desk in under an hour, pert little ass stuck up in the air and screaming out his, not Peter's, name. Nathan took a picture with his cellphone, one hand on the blonde nape of her neck, the other one holding the phone, sent it to Peter. It was a pretty shot. Artistic, almost. Peter replied almost immediately, _Classy, as usual._ Nathan laughed and tossed the phone onto the chair, went back to making Bob Bishop's little girl writhe.

_Saturday --_

[The girls flitted in and out of Nathan's life like bright blonde fireflies. There was a wife once, and two boys, but they lasted as long as Peter tolerated them, and now the boys are at boarding school and know their father only by name and the wife moved to France, sent Peter monthly postcards detailing the minute banalities of her life. She always liked Peter more than she did Nathan, even more so now. Peter sent her long, aimless letters in return; Nathan never bothered reading them, never asked about the content, and Peter never volunteered. It was continually a surprise that she still breathed, considering the fate of most of Nathan's other women, that her entrails weren't spread out all over the floor, Peter crouched over them like some insane fortune teller, covered in sticky blood and seeking to read the future in the way they were draped.

Some nights, Peter returned back to their shared home, the scent of blood still heavy on his clothes; some nights there was a thin sheen of red like sweat on his pale, flawless skin. Once, he came to Nathan and rubbed against him like a cat, until Nathan caught his wrists and pulled them behind his back, pushed him backwards until he hit the wall. "What did you do this time, Pete," he said, and Peter grinned.

"Tell me something, Nathan," he said conversationally. "Why are you such a slut? Is it genetic? It can't be, because I manage to keep it in my pants most of the time."

"What did you do," Nathan asked again.

"Slit her throat. Arterial spray like you wouldn't believe. I wore gloves and a protective suit, managed to keep the suit clean. You would be proud. What was her name again?"

"Niki." Sweet Niki with the impossibly long legs and the troubled childhood that hovered around her like a dark cloud, but how lovely she was, when she didn't have a throat slit from ear to ear. Nathan sighed as Peter ground his hips against Nathan's and lowered his eyes.

"If you'd stop fucking them, I'd stop having to kill them. Think about that for a second, Nathan."

"Yeah, but then you'd be so bored, what would you do with your spare time." He let Peter's arms go and put his hands on his shoulders, pushed down. Peter resisted briefly, but after a while he sank to his knees, fingers deft on Nathan's pants.

"You belong to me," Peter said, his mouth hot near Nathan's already hardening cock. He kissed the tip, chastely, and Nathan ran his fingers through Peter's hair as he continued, "Always remember that."]

It was only the two of them, Nathan had some paperwork to complete and Peter wanted to discuss Chekov's promise of a shipment of M240 machine guns - "He said we could test drive one. I was thinking we'd fly out, take the yacht out into the Red Sea, maybe blow us up some pirates or something."

Nathan smiled distractedly. "Sounds suspiciously like a vacation - now that's a thought."

"We don't need to, Nathan. But it might be nice. You can bring Elle. She seems like the type that would enjoy the feel of a big gun between her tiny hands."

"The last time we took a vacation you threw me overboard," Nathan said.

"No," Peter replied, and tugged on his jacket. "I punched you and you fell over the rail. I dived right in and rescued your sorry ass."

"That you did." Peter was terrified of the water, and spent the rest of the trip enconsed in the cabin below, drinking champagne like it was water and then throwing up continuously for twenty minutes while Nathan held his hair back from his face and muttered nonsensical reassurances.

"You get too involved," Nathan said. "Let Bennet handle it."

Peter quirked his lip up. "You know how Chekov gets. I'm the only one he trusts."

Nathan opened his mouth to reply, but that was when the door burst open, and Sylar stormed in. He had a briefcase in one hand, which he slammed onto the desk. "I gave you two more days," Nathan said mildly.

Sylar shrugged. "I wanted to surprise you. Surprise." He reserved his grin for Peter, who continued peeling his apple with his hunting knife with apparent disregard for the smile directed at him. Nathan stood up and extended his hand, and after a moment Sylar took it.

"I take it the problem's been handled?" Nathan asked, but of course he already knew that. Sylar left a body trail a mile wide, wherever he went. Nathan didn't much care, as distasteful as he found the man for the most part, so long as it wasn't traced back to him.

Sylar said, "It was a pleasure, Nathan. Surprisingly so." He nodded his head at Peter, who flashed him a distracted smile before taking a lascivious bite out of the apple. Nathan rolled his eyes.

"I hate that douche," he said, once Sylar was out of the office.

"You hate everyone."

"That's not true." Nathan paused. "I don't hate you."

Peter only shrugged. "It's the weekend, come on. Let's go home. I'll help you pack."

_Sunday --_


End file.
